


Enough

by fraternite



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-19 16:12:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7368538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraternite/pseuds/fraternite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac worries he isn't enough for Feuilly.  Feuilly worries he isn't doing enough.</p><p>Together, they work things out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for Les Mis Rare Pairs Week but honestly this is my OTP every week of the year.

Courfeyrac's greatest fear is being alone. Not being alone for a few moments, or a day, or even a weekend. And all right, he gets antsy after a few hours by himself; sometimes he goes out to run errands not because he actually _needed_ more toothpaste but because it's an excuse to talk to clerks and bus drivers and random people walking their dogs. But it's not because he's actually _afraid_ \--he just gets bored.

But being alone in a more fundamental way--having nobody in the world who knows you or really cares about you or will stay with you--that's what scares him. He did an internship at a nursing home during his master's program, and he'll never forget the way some of those old people lived: Sitting alone in their rooms all day long, the only voices or laughter in their day what was piped in on the scratchy TV. Shuffling down to the common area on Mother's Day or Thanksgiving to sit alone by the window and listen to other people talk with their families. Waking up in silence, eating in silence, going to bed in silence. He doesn't want to end up like that.

He reads news stories online about people found dead in their apartments, their bodies only discovered because a neighbor noticed a funny smell or because the landlord wanted to check the smoke detectors. One man was found _seven months_ after he passed away, and that only because his bank account eventually drained and his automatic rent payments stopped coming. When he reads these stories, Courfeyrac sometimes has to stop and figure out, with brutal honesty, how long it would take people to find out if he were to drop dead then and there. Usually it's a safe answer--"when I didn't show up for work tomorrow," "a few hours after I stopped answering texts," "when I didn't make it to the picnic on Monday."

But even that's not comforting, because that's just _now_ , and who's to say that things won't be different in a year? In ten years? In fifty? Logically, he knows that it's not likely that he'll end up completely alone and isolated--he has a big family who love him, he's good about staying connected with friends even when they live in different cities or even countries, cities are full of community groups that you can become a part of simply by showing up and starting conversations with people--but the prospect terrifies him all the same.

Maybe in part because that's a kind of being alone that says, "You're not enough."

 

* * *

 

It's been One of Those Days--angry doctors who despite their years of med school can't do anything about the aging population, angry receptionists who are fed up with the health insurance system's bullshit, angry lab techs who are underpaid and overworked, angry patients who don't understand why they're sick. Courfeyrac understands their frustrations. But when they all end up taking it out on the nurse, it gets a little hard to handle.

He gets home exhausted, his tongue sore from biting back nasty retorts, his skin buzzing with the tension of having so many people mad at him. He takes a shower, but even the cold water can't wash away all the emotions he brought home with him. It's too bad it's a Monday; it's another two days before the next ABC meeting. That's what he needs--to get out of the apartment, to be part of a group of people who are all working together instead of competing against each other, to be surrounded by people who like him, who appreciate what he does.

He needs to do karaoke.

But when he floats the idea with Feuilly, Feuilly groans. "Courf, it's a _Monday_."

"So?" Courfeyrac feels how thin the smile is stretched on his face, but Feuilly is cleaning out his lunch bag and doesn't see. "The power of Adele is not limited to the weekends."

"I have to be up at five," Feuilly says. "I have to supervise breakfast tomorrow."

"We can go home at nine, I _promise_." Courfeyrac does his best Bambi-eyes face--not because it has ever actually swayed Feuilly's opinion, but because it makes Feuilly laugh. "Come on, Feuilly, let's do it; it'll be fun."

But Feuilly shakes his head. "Sorry, Courf, I don't have the energy tonight. And I have some reading I wanted to do. Why don't you see if Joly and Bossuet want to go?"

Courfeyrac doesn't want to go out with Joly and Bossuet; he wants to go out with his boyfriend. But if his boyfriend wants to stay in and read, he supposes he can tamp down the ants crawling under his skin and go for a quiet night inside.

While Feuilly spends the entire evening reading _The New Jim Crow_ , Courfeyrac screws around on facebook and listens to the new Beyoncé album for the sixteenth time.

"Oh my god, Feuilly, this one's amazing," he says. "You _have_ to hear it."

Feuilly obligingly looks up from his book, shutting it with one finger tucked between the pages to hold his place. "It's pretty good," he agrees when the song is finished, but he's already turning back to the book.

And Courfeyrac knows that Beyoncé isn't really Feuilly's thing--he goes for either stuff with cellos or really fast Spanish rap--but really? He can't take a few minutes from his book to enjoy something simply because it's important to Courfeyrac?

And in that moment, the seed is planted.

 

* * *

 

Once the idea crosses his mind, it's hard not to see the pattern everywhere. Feuilly asking for a raincheck on the museum trip they'd planned, because he's got a wicked stress headache from work and wouldn't be good company. Feuilly passing on the movie Courfeyrac got from the library, saying he wants to get to bed early for once. Feuilly turning down Courfeyrac's suggestion of a lunch date--he always has paperwork or phone calls or _something_ that he's working on over lunch, there's no point in Courfeyrac coming all the way in to school just so he can sit in Feuilly's office for half an hour while Feuilly keeps popping into the hallway to wheedle kids to go to the cafeteria where they belong. (It seems worth it to Courfeyrac, but whatever.)

He always has a perfectly good excuse, an eminently valid reason for saying no on that particular occasion . . . but that's just it. He _always_ has an excuse not to spend time with Courfeyrac.

They've always had boundaries in their relationship, and until now they've been pretty good at it. Giving each other space is healthy; it's something Feuilly absolutely needs in a relationship, and something Courfeyrac has known from the start he needs to work on. He's done his very best not to be too clingy, to give Feuilly room to breathe and to remember to give _himself_ to be his own person and not to be defined by his partner.

And of _course_ he knows that Feuilly's a pretty solid introvert, especially compared with Courfeyrac's extreme extroversion. He knows that Feuilly needs time to himself to recharge, that where going out fills up Courfeyrac's reserves of energy, it drains Feuilly's, that while they have a lot in common they don't share all their interests and there are going to be some things he wants to do that Feuilly has no interest in and vice versa.

But Feuilly doesn't seem to have any trouble getting up the energy to go to ABC meetings or lectures at the university with Combeferre and Enjolras. He stays up until ten or eleven most nights reading. He's all fired up about an all-night Bernie Sanders rally. It's only when it comes to Courfeyrac that his enthusiasm seems faint.

And it's no wonder, Courfeyrac thinks in the silence of the apartment at eleven-thirty, when Feuilly's been asleep for two hours and Courfeyrac's still sitting up at the kitchen table in the dark, hunched over YouTube videos of cats dubbed over with silly voices: Feuilly could do so much better than Courfeyrac. Feuilly is so smart and brave and committed; he cares so much about the world and about the people around him, and his work ethic when it comes to the things he cares about is just incredible. He's kind and strong and adorable and sometimes Courfeyrac is giddy with amazement that someone this amazing is into _him,_ a goofy five-foot-nothing with perpetually messy hair and wild unrealistic schemes, who cries over spaghetti sauce commercials and never managed to get a minor in college because he couldn't make up his mind on anything. Sometimes it seems too good to be true.

Courfeyrac tries to put a different spin on the facts: Feuilly's comfortable enough in their relationship that he doesn't feel the need to be tethered to Courfeyrac all the time. It's a sign of a mature relationship that they can each pursue their own separate interests and still come back together. But lately, even when they're together, Feuilly seems distracted, his mind on work or ABC stuff or whatever's next in his endless list of books to read. And it's hard for Courfeyrac to find any way to read that other than the one he's been dreading all along (from the very first time they went out on a Real Date, if he's honest with himself).

The inevitable is happening: Feuilly is losing interest in him.

 

* * *

 

It comes to a head the day Feuilly comes home late.

Courfeyrac had been planning to suggest they go out to dinner; he feels like he's coming down with a cold ( _again--_ the third one this summer--he was supposed to be past this after his first two years) and he wants a good spicy curry to snap him out of this foggy, half-asleep feeling and open up his nasal passages. But five o'clock comes and goes, then six o'clock. Feuilly's not back.

Eventually, Courfeyrac resigns himself to leftover enchilladas. He puts the pan in the oven to warm up, sure that Feuilly will get home any minute. After all, he hasn't texted (Courfeyrac's checked his phone like six times in the last half hour).

The enchilladas are getting crunchy around the edges and Courfeyrac is sliding deeper into a youtube spiral when Feuilly's keys rattle in the lock and he comes in with his arms full of mail and shopping bags and

"Sorry I'm home so late," he says, stopping on his way into the kitchen to press a kiss to Courfeyrac's forehead. "I stayed late at work to finish up some paperwork, and then I had to stop by the store to pick up stuff for the honor roll party tomorrow, and I had library books due back."

Courfeyrac pushes down the irrational feeling of betrayal and hopes Feuilly doesn't notice. "Change quick, dinner's in the oven," he urges, and Feuilly's eyes light up.

"I love you."

Over dinner, they bring out the kitchen timer again; each of them gets three minutes of work-related ranting before it's lights out on work and the subject is off-limits for the rest of the evening. It's something Courfeyrac had suggested last year, when Feuilly's school was dealing with a lot of gang-related violence and he was having trouble leaving those problems at work. It's not a hard-and-fast rule--when either of them _needs_ to vent about work, they let the rule slide--but it's a little reminder to be present with each other. They hardly need the rule very often lately; things have been going better than usual for both of them the past few weeks, and sometimes their nightly rants are just accounts of funny or interesting things that happened that day. But Courfeyrac is glad they're sticking to the ritual, to the explicit decision to put their relationship--each other--first for a few hours every day.

Courfeyrac doesn't have much to say: Work was fine, the new interns are finally getting the hang of things, the hospital's benefits department is doing a healthy living competition-style promotion for the staff and the second-floor nurses are going to form a team. "What about you?" he asks, dismissing the last minute of his time and resetting the timer for Feuilly. "How was your day?"

Feuilly shrugs. "Same stuff as always," he sighs. "We spent the morning doing conflict resolution circles for the same kids we circle up with every single week. Another of my tenth-graders is pregnant . . . DeAnte is refusing to go to Alegra again and I had to spend forty minutes talking him down and reminding him he needs it to graduate . . . tomorrow we're going to have another useless staff meeting where everyone argues about test prep." He sighs again, then grins thinly. "So you know, about an average day."

Courfeyrac hovers a hand over the timer. "Do you want to go into overtime?"

But Feuilly shakes his head. "No, I'm good. It wasn't a particularly stressful day or anything. I'm just tired of the same old shit coming up over and over." He shuts his eyes for a minute. "Let's talk about something that's not work--in fact. . ."

Feuilly gets up from the table to get a handful of pamphlets from his bag. "These were at the library," he says, sliding one across the table to Courfeyrac. "It's a new tutoring program for the GED; the adult programs department is partnering with the children's library to offer story hour programming during all the tutoring sessions so that people have free childcare right there, isn't that a great idea?"

Feuilly brushes the hair out of his eyes--it's getting too long again--and Courfeyrac makes a mental note to tell him again how cute he finds the gesture. "I was just thinking about my kids when I picked them up--I have a few that are trying _really_ hard to graduate but it's just not going to happen this year, and then they're going to be too old for public school, so I want to give them options. But then on my way home I thought, 'what if I volunteered as a tutor?' They need people, they had a sign on the front desk about it."

"You would be really good at that," Courfeyrac says at once. Then something in the flyer catches his eye, and his stomach sinks. "It's in the mornings. And . . . on Tuesday nights."

"You sign up for either the morning sessions or the night sessions," Feuilly says. "I wouldn't be able to do the morning sessions during the school year, obviously, but I think that would be okay. It's not the same group of students, so it wouldn't be a problem for me to just do the night sessions."

That's not what Courfeyrac meant. He glances over at Feuilly, who is eating enchilladas unconcernedly. "Tuesdays," he says again.

"Yeah, one night a week. That's not too much, right?"

 _Be good, be kind, be understanding_ , Courfeyrac tells himself. He doesn't say anything; he turns his attention back to his plate and cuts another bite of enchilladas. But he doesn't have any appetite left.

With the fork halfway to his mouth, he changes his mind and puts it down. "Um. Tuesdays are pub trivia? Remember?"

Feuilly frowns. "Yeah, we'd have to find somewhere else that does it."

That's reasonable. Yep, completely logical. The Angry Walrus cannot possibly be the only bar in the city that does trivia nights, and it's not as if the questions at their regular spot are anything special. You could probably pay $5 to guess the capitals of Southeast Asian countries and the top songs from specific years in the 90s at almost any bar in the city. Or even if not--it's not like drinking shitty beer and answering useless questions in a too-loud, too-hot room is such an important experience that they can't live without it. It makes perfect sense that tutoring struggling students should outrank Pub Trivia Night on Feuilly's list of priorities.

Still. All the logic in the world can't convince Courfeyrac's eyes not to start watering.

He tries to hide the emotion in a sudden and intense interest in his enchilladas, but his nose is running and he can't help but sniffle a little bit.

Feuilly looks up, startled. "Courf, are you . . . what's the matter?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing." He pretends he's wiping enchillada sauce off his face, not blotting at his eyes; everything's fine, there's nothing to talk about.

"You're crying." Feuilly frowns. "Did something happen today? Or did--did _I_ say something to upset you?"

God, he hates being so emotional sometimes.

"It's not a big deal," he says creakily. "I'm overreacting." He wishes it didn't have to be a whole thing; he doesn't have the energy or stability for that right now. He _is_ upset, but he doesn't need to drag Feuilly into his mess.

But Feuilly seems determined to be dragged in. "Please, Courf. Tell me what's wrong."

"It's stupid," Courfeyrac sniffles. "It's just. Trivia night."

"Trivia night," Feuilly repeats flatly. He sits back in his chair. "That's what you're upset about."

"No!" Courfeyrac snaps angrily. It's not just Trivia Night; it's everything. All the little slips over the last few weeks that betray how Feuilly is getting tired of him.

But at the same time, it _is_ Trivia Night--or rather, it's the fact that Feuilly doesn't seem to _care_ whether they hang onto that tradition or not. Courfeyrac wouldn't even mind if they had to stop doing the pub quiz--if only Feuilly would show a little disappointment at losing their weekly date night.

"It's important to _me_ ," he mutters bitterly, staring down at his plate.

Feuilly makes a frustrated spluttering noise. "I _said_ we'd do it another time," he says. "I just wanted to do something that mattered to me, something where I could do some actual good. I thought you might . . ." He trails off, then shakes his head. "I'm not asking you to give up your precious pub quiz."

 _Your_ pub quiz. Courfeyrac's stomach goes cold.

"Never mind," he mutters. He picks up his fork and pushes the food on his plate around randomly, his vision all blurry with hot tears, then realizes he might be sick if he tries to eat anything else. He stands up abruptly, tossing his knife and fork on the plate with a clatter much louder and more angry-sounding than he intended. Feuilly looks up, startled.

"I have to leave--I, I have a thing at eight," Courfeyrac lies. He doesn't want to make it seem like he's walking out on this--but he can't handle being here right now. He needs to get out of the apartment, to go talk to Enjolras or Combeferre or somebody--anybody. "I would've told you earlier . . . but then you didn't get home until almost seven."

That was nasty, and Courfeyrac regrets saying it as soon as he steps out into the hallway. He can apologize--he _will_ apologize--but it was still mean and rude. Maybe Feuilly is right to want to be done with him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Feuilly's greatest fear is coming to the end of his life and having nothing to show for his time in the world. As a sophomore in college, he poured himself into his introductory architecture classes, dreaming of designing a striking bridge or skyscraper that would remain long after he was gone, that would become the backdrop of a city. Even if nobody remembered his name, his designs would be proof that he had passed through this world.

Now, ten years later, Feuilly has laid some dreams to rest and picked up others. He spends his days talking to angry young people instead of designing buildings, and he no longer dreams of being famous. But he still hopes that something he does will make a change in the world . . . in a life.

It frightens him, sometimes, what a little effect his work has on the city. He helps kids get through the day without fighting, get through a year with a teacher they don't see eye-to-eye with, get through high school. But every year there are new kids with just as many problems as they ones he worked with the previous year. For every kid who walks the stage, there are twenty others who didn't make it, who dropped out halfway through the year and are selling drugs or worse. It's like trying to bail out a sinking ship with a teaspoon.

So he works as hard as he can, and he researches and reads and goes to trainings, and he keeps racking his brain for whatever it is that he could be doing and isn’t yet. Because there must be something. It isn’t right for the world to be this badly screwed up, if there isn’t a way to make things better. Feuilly firmly believes that everyone is their “brother’s keeper”—that everyone is responsible for all the other people around them. So even if it isn’t his problem, specifically, he’s going to do everything he can to look for the solution.

He's terrified that in the end he'll look back and think, "I didn't do enough."

 

* * *

 

Feuilly’s stomach is knotted with anxiety when he gets home, and he has to stop in the hallway outside his and Courfeyrac’s apartment to take some deep breaths.

“How was work?” Courfeyrac asks when Feuilly finally opens the door and comes inside.

“All right.” Feuilly lets some of the weight of the day bleed into his voice. There’d been another big fight—this one started by two kids he’d _just_ done mediation with the week before.

“You sound tired.”

“Long day.”

Courfeyrac unfolds himself from the sofa and gets up to press a light kiss to Feuilly’s lips. “Let’s open that bottle of wine we got last weekend and catch up on Sense8.”

“Mmm. What will we do for dinner?”

“Great Wall?”

Feuilly shakes his head. “I don’t want to do takeout. It’s so much cheaper to cook something ourselves.”

“Feuilly, we’ve got money.” Courfeyrac squeezes his shoulder. “We’re both working real full-time jobs, our rent is _incredibly_ affordable. We don’t need to worry about that stuff.”

“I know we _can_ afford it. That doesn’t mean we _need_ to spend our money on restaurant food all the time. There’s so many more important things to . . .” He lets the sentence trail off, suddenly exhausted with the futility of it all. They could live on beans and rice, throw all their money into charities and community organizations—would it even make a dent?

Courfeyrac frowns. “Go take your shower,” he says. “I’ll make . . . um, fried rice. That all right?”

“It’s fine,” Feuilly says wearily. “Thanks. Sorry, I—” He’s not sure what he’s apologizing for.

Courfeyrac kisses him again, then pushes him in the direction of the bathroom. “Go,” he says.

The hot water relaxes Feuilly’s tense muscles, and when he gets out, Courfeyrac has dinner ready and the laptop set up with Netflix ready to go. It’s nice to sit down and just relax—at least for the first hour or so. When the first episode ends, they let the next one autoplay, and Courfeyrac snuggles down next to Feuilly, twining their fingers together. But Feuilly can’t quiet his mind; can’t shake the nagging thought that this is a waste of time, that there’s something else he _should_ be doing.

The episode ends on an awful cliffhanger, and Courfeyrac hovers the cursor over “Play next episode” as the credits roll on for the second time. “One more?” he asks hopefully.

“I don’t know,” Feuilly says. He doesn’t really want to watch another, but he can’t name anything specific that he wants to do instead. Just—something worthwhile.

“Come on,” Courfeyrac begs. “I _have_ to know if she gets out.”

“Um,” Feuilly glances down at his hands, not knowing how to say that he’s not sure he can handle sitting here watching TV for another whole hour. Nothing’s _wrong_ , after all. But everything’s not exactly right, either. “I guess,” he finally says, hoping Courfeyrac will pick up on his reluctance.

But Courfeyrac just crows, “Yessss!” and settles back against Feuilly’s shoulder, eyes already fixed on the screen, where the unarmed heroine is facing down a bunch of men with guns.

She survives, though Feuilly can’t say how, exactly. He isn’t really following the episode closely, focused on the challenge of sitting still and not giving away just how antsy he feels. Or how hurt.

He _knows_ it’s unfair of him to try to hide his anxiety and at the same time feel upset that Courfeyrac doesn’t pick up that he struggling. But it’s not worth bringing up—especially not when he doesn’t even really know what’s wrong—and anyway, he doesn’t want to rely on his boyfriend all the time, as if he’s not capable of taking care of himself or dealing with his own shit.

All the same, it hurts that Courfeyrac doesn’t notice.

 

* * *

 

It’s a few weeks later that he figures out why he’s been so on edge. The ineffectiveness of his work always gets to him near the end of the school year, when he has to sit down and tell twenty-one-year olds that unless a miracle happens on their final exam, they won’t be graduating; when the weather gets nice and there are shootings in the paper every week. The kids are stir-crazy and anxious for summer and already the counselors are working on the master schedule for the next school year and realizing just how many kids they’ll have to place back in the exact same classes they took this year. He took this job so he could make a mark on the world, but this time of year, it seems like the only marks he’s leaving are failure and discouragement.

 _Work-life balance_ , Feuilly reminds himself. _You can’t take everything home every night_. He practices mindfulness exercises, he practices mentally turning off the lights on everything that happened at school during the day, closing the door on it for the evening. _It’ll still be there when I wake up tomorrow; I can deal with it then._

It helps, a little. But even when he succeeds in not worrying about specific problems, he’s kept awake at night, tossing and turning in the empty bed (it’s a good thing Courfeyrac goes to bed late; otherwise he’d have to worry about keeping him up too), pressed down by the fear that his life isn’t worth anything. That nothing he’s doing is going to make any difference.

Courfeyrac still isn't showing any sign of noticing Feuilly's struggle--a fact for which Feuilly is both relieved and a little bit disappointed. He feels guilty playing this game--wanting Courfeyrac to ask him about it, when it's so minor Feuilly himself isn't willing to bring it up. It's childish and ridiculous.

But to whine about something so unimportant (So he feels sad because there's a lot of problems in the world. Well, no shit.), to blatantly fish for sympathy because his work is hard . . . that would be childish, too. Especially when one of his students is in the ICU in critical condition because he got stabbed last Friday night; when he has students who'll go down to one meal a day this summer without the free breakfast and lunch they get at school. There's people out there who have _real_ things to be upset about.

And what he's aching for is for someone to tell him that his work _is_ effective, that he _is_ changing the world, that he's already doing the most he possibly can. The problem of course, being that that would be a lie, and Feuilly would know it. Courfeyrac could say it until he was blue in the face, but Feuilly wouldn't believe him. He can always tell when Courfeyrac's lying.

What he wants is for the world to be different from the way it is. For life to be less challenging. Courfeyrac can't give him that; nobody can.

So it's frustrating to not have Courfeyrac picking up on this--to not have him to throw ideas and overdramatic complaints about the state of the world back and forth with--but it's not the end of the world. This shit is Feuilly's problem, and ultimately it's up to him to work it out for himself.

Reading--the kind of books Combeferre and Enjolras are always carrying around or quoting--quiets the buzzing in his head, at least a bit. It's not actually doing anything to help, but at least it's unquestionably worthwhile, and it helps him understand better why the world is the way it is and what other people are doing to fix it. "Education is the first step," Combeferre is always saying.

And ABC meetings are, as ever, are the brightest spot in every week. Those two hours with a collection of people who see everything that's wrong and still believe that it's worthwhile to do something to try to fix things always leave Feuilly feeling energized and excited again.

Maybe there’s something else he can do.

 

* * *

 

Feuilly knows it's foolish of him to get so excited over the tutoring opportunity. He tells himself as much as he picks up the pamphlets, as he asks the circulation desk worker about the program, as he drives home, already working out the logistics of volunteering. He can't let himself hope that this is going to be the big, important thing he does with his time, because that's just not realistic. The world doesn't change like that, and this tutoring thing is going to have all the same ups and downs that social work does.

But as he tells Courfeyrac about yet another discouraging day at a school that never seems to change, no matter how many years he works there, no matter how many nights he stays late, no matter how many grant proposals he writes, he thinks maybe he deserves to treat himself to just a moment of excitement, of hope.

Maybe he can't survive without it.

So he pulls out the pamphlets and starts to explain about the program, how it would be a really good thing for some of his students, how it might be a way he could get involved in people's lives in a way that could really make a measurable difference. How he thinks he can fit it into his schedule in a way that wouldn't be overwhelming.

To his dismay, Courfeyrac doesn't seem to share Feuilly's excitement. Feuilly had hoped he might get caught up in the opportunity as well--after all, Courfeyrac's passion for social justice and his overflowing love for all people were part of why Feuilly fell in love with him in the first place. He'd even imagined this might be something they could do together--they had the ABC, of course, but this would be something they'd share, just the two of them. He didn't want to shove it in Courfeyrac's face, but Courfeyrac liked this kind of stuff, and Feuilly had imagined him jumping on board on his own.

At the very least, he'd expected Courfeyrac--even if he wasn't interested himself--would see that this was something that mattered to Feuilly.

But instead, Courfeyrac starts to sulk, frowning down at his dinner. "Tuesdays are pub trivia? Remember?"

Okay, not the reaction Feuilly was hoping for. "Yeah," he says, "we'd have to find somewhere else that does it." He doesn't like how full his schedule is getting--he's flirted with that danger before, packing in at least one commitment every night, until a dramatic crash-and-burn taught him that he had to be careful about overextending himself. But one extra night per week wasn't bad, and it was worth it for something like this.

Then Feuilly forgets all about scheduling as he catches sight of a tear running down Courfeyrac's cheek.

"Courf, are you . . . what's the matter?"

"Nothing," Courfeyrac mumbles, muffled.

"You're crying." Courfeyrac is a horrible liar, but Feuilly is terrible at reading people, and while he can tell that Courfeyrac's--obviously--upset, he has no idea what caused it.

"Did something happen today?" Feuilly tries. His stomach clenches as another possibility crosses his mind. "Or did--did I say something to upset you?"

"It's not a big deal," Courfeyrac lies. "I'm overreacting."

"Please, Courf," Feuilly begs. _You know I'm not good at this. Just tell me._ "Tell me what's wrong."

"It's stupid," Courfeyrac sniffles, looking more and more miserable as he teeters closer to spilling the secret. "It's just . . ." Feuilly's mind runs through a dozen possible disasters: Is someone in Courfeyrac's family sick? Did Feuilly unintentionally say something cruel? Did he forget to do something he'd promised? Is Courfeyrac himself sick--God, is Courfeyrac dying?

"Trivia night." Courfeyrac blots at his eyes with his napkin.

"Trivia night." Feuilly sits back in his chair, not sure what to do with this. "That's what you're upset about."

"No!" Courfeyrac snaps, then bites his lip. "It's important to me," he mutters, sullen.

For a moment, Courfeyrac looks like a complete stranger--nothing like the confident, generous, easygoing man Feuilly fell in love with. How is the specific night of the week that they go out for trivia _that_ important?

"I said we'd do it another time," Feuilly says, letting his frustration creep into his voice. "I just wanted to do something that mattered to me, something where I could do some actual good. I thought you might . . ." _I thought you might be just as excited. I thought you would understand. I thought you might at least be happy for me._

He shakes his head brusquely, aware that if he voices those thoughts, he's going to end up breaking down just like Courfeyrac. "I'm not asking you to give up your precious pub quiz," he mutters.

 _Shit shit shit shit_.

Before Feuilly can take back the angry remark, Courfeyrac is standing up, throwing his dishes in the sink.

"I have to leave--I, I have a thing at eight," he says, and Feuilly knows that he's lying, but he can't blame him. "I would've told you earlier . . . but then you didn't get home until almost seven."

And then he's gone.

For several minutes, Feuilly just sits there, staring out the window into the darkness. Courfeyrac's headlights flick on, and the car drives away. (The neighbors parked him in too close, and he has to make two passes before he can get out without hitting either of them.) Mechanically, he eats his cold enchilladas.

Belatedly, he wonders if he should feel guilty for that. He fucked up, Courfeyrac's upset--surely he should have lost his appetite. (One more thing to feel guilty for.) But then, he didn't really taste what he was eating, so it's probably all right.

As he gets up to wash the dishes, his guilt abates and indignation moves in in its place. Yes, he let his frustration get the better of him and said something rude--but why was he frustrated in the first place? Because Courf was throwing a fit over something small and unimportant.

Water sloshes out onto the counter as Feuilly scrubs at the sauce and cheese burnt onto the bottom of the pan. Courfeyrac is being so childish and--and selfish--over this whole thing. It's like he's so upset about the inconvenience to himself, or whatever stupid thing it is, that he can't see that this is _actually_ important to Feuilly; he doesn't even seem to be listening. Who _cares_ if they have to change their pub quiz night? Why is he getting so upset over it? That's not the Courfeyrac Feuilly knows, not the man he fell in love with.

He stops halfway through drying the pan. The water drips onto the floor, soaking into his left sock, but he's not paying attention.

That's not the Courfeyrac he knows.

Courfeyrac is generous and kind and he cares so much about the people around him, often to the point of neglecting his own needs. He's overdramatic, but only in the cause of things he cares about--whether that be providing every person with healthcare, or simply putting the smile on a friend's face. It's one reason why Feuilly fell in love with him.

Courfeyrac's upset, and it isn't really about the quiz. Feuilly doesn't know exactly what's going on--but he _knows Courfeyrac_. He trusts him.

Feuilly sighs and cleans up up the puddle of water that he's collected at his feet. He puts the pan away, wipes down the countertop, then starts to make himself a cup of tea. There's no telling how late Courfeyrac will be out; his emotions burn fast but hot, and if he's gone to Enjolras and Combeferre--well, Feuilly knows first-hand how their advice can sometimes run long-winded.

It's all right. Feuilly doesn't mind waiting.

 


	3. Chapter 3

"You have to talk to him about this," Enjolras says flatly. "We're not the person who needs to hear everything you've been saying."

Courfeyrac takes a moment to feel offended, because he came to Enjolras and Combeferre for emotional support, after all, and now Enjolras is telling him he has to do something horribly uncomfortable and unpleasant? But in fairness, they've fed him ice cream and let him cry on their couch for an hour about his troubles. It's probably time to pay the piper.

Still: "I don't want to," he sniffles. "What if I'm right?"

"If you're right, then you might as well get it over with quickly."

 _(What the hell, Enjolras,_ Courfeyrac thinks. _Next time I'm going to Joly and Bossuet, even if that means half the group will know about my shit by tomorrow morning.)_

But Enjolras continues, "But I don't think you're reading things right--from watching the two of you together, I think it's clear that Feuilly loves you a lot. Back me up here, Ferre."

Combeferre nods. "Definitely."

"But he--" Courfeyrac begins, but Enjolras cuts off what promises to be another trip round the same territory Courfeyrac's covered for the last hour, which--fair.

"So maybe there's something about the way your relationship is going that he'd like to change, like--I don't know, spending time together in different ways. Or maybe something entirely different is going on and distracting him, and he just hasn't said anything about it. You know how Feuilly is."

Courfeyrac feels his cheeks flush hot at this--because it's absolutely true, and he never thought about it. Feuilly, despite his embarassed murmurs that he's working on this, is terrible about bringing up his problems, even to the people who care about him most. If something's wrong, and Courfeyrac didn't pick up on it, he's going to feel like the worst boyfriend ever.

"No matter what it is, you need to talk to him," Combeferre says. "You're miserable, and the more you go over and over this stuff in your head, the bigger a problem you'll make it."

"And he needs to know it if things he's doing are making you feel unloved," Enjolras adds. "He cares about you a lot, and I'm positive he's not intentionally making you feel that way. He'd want to know so he can change it. Because _he loves you so much._ "

"Okay," Courfeyrac gulps, blinking back tears of hope-stress-relief-who even knows. "I'll go back and talk to him now."

Combeferre glances down at his phone "Uh, did you know it's almost eleven? He's probably asleep."

Courfeyrac swivels around, craning his neck to see the microwave clock in the kitchen, because he could have sworn that it was maybe nine-thirty--but no, the green numbers read 10:49, and _Enjolras and Combeferre are such good friends_ because that means they've been listening to him complain for almost three hours.

He tells them as much and Enjolras laughs and says he's going to make a note of this to bring into play the next time Courfeyrac makes those no-bake cookie bars.

"Go home and go to bed," Combeferre tells him. "You can talk with him tomorrow evening when you've had a chance to calm down and get your thoughts together."

"Everything's going to be okay," Enjolras tells him, as he hugs them goodnight.

Courfeyrac leaves Enjolras and Combeferre's apartment eighty percent ready to follow their advice and just leave it for tomorrow--as upset and antsy as he is, it's not worth waking Feuilly up over it, and if he did the conversation probably wouldn't be very fruitful on anyone's side. Driving through the dark, empty streets of eleven o'clock on a Thursday night, orange streetlights passing overhead in a rhythmic series of flashes that's strangely soothing, is enough to bring him up to ninety-five percent.

But when he lets himself into the apartment, he finds the lights on, and Feuilly sitting at the kitchen table, fast asleep.

There's a cup of half-drunk tea in front of him, and his head is pillowed on an open book, and Courfeyrac can just imagine him sitting up way past his bedtime, trying fruitlessly to keep himself awake--waiting for Courfeyrac. Feuilly looks very small and vulnerable like this, and Courfeyrac is suddenly aware of the dark circles under his eyes; he wonders how he could get so used to them that he just doesn't notice them anymore.

He closes and locks the apartment door very quietly behind himself, then toes off his shoes. Padding across the apartment in stocking feet, he picks up a blanket from the couch and starts to drape it over Feuilly's shoulders before he realizes that if Feuilly sleeps at the table like this all night, he'll wake up stiff and sore. But he looks so tired that Courfeyrac doesn't want to wake him.

Before Courfeyrac has to make a decision, Feuilly's eyelids flutter open and he slowly sits up. The blanket starts to slide off his shoulders, and he clutches at it automatically before frowning down at it, confused.

"I'm sorry I was out so late," Courfeyrac murmurs. He leans over tentatively to kiss Feuilly's forehead, unsure whether the affection will be welcome after he's walked out like this, left Feuilly to sit up alone.

But Feuilly turns his face up to kiss Courfeyrac full on the lips. "I'm glad you're back."

"Time for bed."

Feuilly shakes his head. "We should talk about . . . about what's going on."

"It's late, and you have work tomorrow," Courfeyrac protests. Technically, they both have work tomorrow, but Courfeyrac has somehow held onto his college-born ability to function on as little as three hours of sleep--something Feuilly never learned.

"I want to talk," Feuilly insists. "You're upset--and I think you're upset with me--and I'm not going to be able to sleep if we don't at least start talking about this."

"You seemed to be sleeping just fine," Courfeyrac says--then, seeing the hurt look flash across Feuilly's face, hastily ammends, "I didn't mean it like--like that. Just. You're really tired." He sighs. "Sorry."

"Tomorrow's Friday, I can handle it for one day."

Conceding defeat--and honestly a little relieved to be just getting this over with--Courfeyrac flops into the chair across from Feuilly. "So."

Feuilly takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. "So first of all, I want to apologize. I was rude to you, I shouldn't have--"

"I was too; I'm sorry."

Feuilly gives a shallow nod, his smile wan. "All right, so with that settled . . . what's going on?"

"Well . . ." Despite having just gone through the whole thing with Enjolras and Combeferre at least twice in its entirety, Courfeyrac finds himself lost for words. He can't just blurt it out, like: _You don't seem to care about me anymore._ "Lately I've been feeling like . . . like something's wrong with us. It's a lot of little things, and maybe I'm interpreting them wrong, but there's a lot and it's added up. And I don't want you to feel pressured into continuing something that isn't fulfilling; I mean, feelings are feelings and it's nobody's fault if they change or . . . go away."

He looks up to meet Feuilly's eyes, but Feuilly is just frowning in sleepy confusion, his forehead wrinkled. Courfeyrac sighs. "It feels like you maybe don't--aren't interested in being with me anymore," he says. "Like maybe the feelings that you had . . . like maybe you want out."

He sees the exact moment when Feuilly gets it, because his face crumples like someone's sucker-punched him in the stomach. "God, _no_!" he gasps. He sits forward, clutching Courfeyrac's hands in both of his, tears swimming in his eyes. "Absolutely not! That isn't true at all. I _love_ you, Courf, I love you even more than when we started dating. You're my best friend, and I'm so lucky to be with you."

Courfeyrac laughs, tears of relief welling up in his own eyes. "Oh, thank God."

Feuilly isn't done. "Seriously, Courfeyrac, I can't imagine not being interested in you anymore, that's--that's . . ." He spreads his hands. "You're confident and funny, you're the kindest person I know, you're always up for any kind of adventure or wild plan--even when it's just my boring stuff like the washing machine museum--"

"Hey, that museum was incredible!" Courfeyrac breaks in. "I'm so glad you suggested it."

"--you're so unselfish and caring and passionate about what you believe in, and I love you _so much_ ," Feuilly says again. "But--" He bites his lip, frowning. "You didn't know it. What did I do wrong?"

"Nothing," Courfeyrac assures him. "You're wonderful, don't worry about--"

"No, you thought I wasn't in love with you anymore," Feuilly insists. "If I was doing something--or _not_ doing something--that made you feel that way, I want to know what it was."

"Um . . . I guess it's . . . you know the different love languages thing?" Feuilly nods, and Courfeyrac goes on. "Well, I always thought mine was physical touch, you know? But maybe it's actually quality time, because sometimes I can be really sensitive if I feel like a person doesn't want to spend time with me . . . if you don't want to spend time with me."

"Oh. That's why trivia night . . ."

Courfeyrac nods, feeling the heat rising to his face. "It's not that I care about the pub quiz, it's _really_ not," he says. "But I like spending that time with you--knowing that every week, we have that. And when you were talking about it, I got the feeling that you didn't care about the quiz--about the date night. Like it didn't matter, compared to the tutoring thing. It's . . . it's things like that."

"I'm sorry," Feuilly says again. "I really, really didn't mean it to seem like that. I _do_ love to spend time with you, and I'm sorry I don't act like that's a priority of mine. I--"

"I know." Courfeyrac can feel that his smile is sappy and watery, but he can't bring himself to care. "I love you too."

But there's something in Feuilly's face--a guarded look in his eyes--that makes him think he doesn't have the whole story.

Thinking back over the past few weeks in this new light, he realizes that Feuilly's explanation doesn't cover everything. Feuilly says he loves Courfeyrac just as much as ever, and Courfeyrac believes him. He can believe that the strange detachment, the lack of enthusiasm he's noticed from Feuilly isn't a sign of Feuilly's dissatisfaction with their relationship. But he can't believe he made it up entirely.

He looks up to meet Feuilly's still-watery eyes, and squeezes his hands.

"Your turn."

 

* * *

 

"I'm sorry," Feuilly says. "I really, really didn't mean it to seem like that. I _do_ love to spend time with you, and I'm sorry I don't act like that's a priority of mine. I--" He feels like the worst person in the world for making Courfeyrac-- _Courfeyrac,_ of all people, the most amazing person he's ever met--feel unloved.

"I know. I love you too." Courfeyrac's smile is back to its usual brilliance, and Feuilly's chest tightens at the thought that it was _his fault_ that that smile had dimmed. How could he have gotten so caught up in his own shit that he didn't even notice what he was doing to his boyfriend?

Courfeyrac squeezes Feuilly's hands, getting his attention. "Your turn," he says.

"What do you mean?" Feuilly asks.

"Something's going on with you, too." Feuilly starts to protest that he's fine, this conversation is about _Courfeyrac_ and how Feuilly hurt him, but Courfeyrac pushes on. "I'm sorry I misinterpreted it--but I know something's up. I'd like hear about it, if you think it would help to talk to somebody. Or if there's something I can do to help."

And despite how hurt he felt that Courfeyrac had never seemed to notice him struggling, now Feuilly wishes he hadn't said anything. Because he's started to recognize this spiral of bad feelings about the uselessness of his job and everything he's doing with his life--it's illogical, and it builds on its own feedback, and it's demanding more and more of his attention every day. Which fits right in with pattern his anxiety usually follows. No matter how many times he's listened to Joly or Jehan or Bahorel talk about their own mental health stuff, no mantter how many tirades about how mental health should be viewed with no more shame than physical health, no matter how many times he's confessed to Courfeyrac or Enjolras that he's going through a rough patch, it doesn't seem to get any easier to admit that he can't deal with life on his own.

But-- _he thought you didn't love him_ , a voice inside his head reminds him. Maybe he owes Courfeyrac this. It's not an excuse, but maybe it'll help him believe Feuilly's account of the last few weeks.

"It's work," he says, very quiet, and Courfeyrac leans in closer.

"I thought work was going okay? At least the same as usual."

Feuilly nods. "That's the problem. It's the same as usual--the same as last year, and the year before, and the year before that. Nothing's changing. I'm going to be dealing with the exact same problems for the rest of my life. It makes me feel like I'm not making a difference."

He looks down at the table, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks. "It's stupid, because I _knew_ that going into it, and to hope to fix everything on my own would be so arrogant. And I know I'm helping a few individual people, and that's really all you can hope for. But maybe if I can't handle this, that means I chose the wrong career."

"How is that stupid?" Courfeyrac asks. "To look at problems and think 'I really hope that gets better'? That's just natural. And of course it's discouraging to feel like your work isn't making as much of a difference as you'd hoped--especially when it's something that's so important to you."

"It _is_ stupid," Feuilly insists. "It's illogical. I just can't get out of this spiral of thinking that I'm not doing enough."

Courfeyrac's hands tighten on Feuilly's again. "It's okay--I mean, I'm sorry that you feel that way, that sucks. But your feelings aren't required to make sense. So what would help you? What can I do?"

Feuilly thinks for a minute. "I don't know," he admits. "I'm too tired to think straight right now. But . . . maybe we can talk about this another day? It would be nice to have someone to think out loud to--and maybe to get a second opinion on which thoughts are completely illogical. You can be the voice of reason."

"I don't think I've ever been accused of taking _that_ role," Courfeyrac says, grinning. "But yes, of course--obviously, we can talk about this sometime when it's not midnight . . . and in the meantime, can I remind you of how proud I am of you, and how amazing I think you are? The work you do is really important, and you're deeply committed to it, and you work so hard for the students you work with. They're really lucky to have you in their lives."

"Thanks," Feuilly says softly. He breathes deep, trying to hold onto the words, to bury them deep in his heart so they'll stay with him for the moments when he really needs to hear this.

Something seems to occur to Courfeyrac, and he cocks his head to one side. "Is that . . . that's why you were so into the tutoring thing, isn't it?" He sighs. "You were so excited about it."

"I just wanted something where I could make a real difference," Feuilly admits. "Where I could see actual results." It sounds thin and pathetic even to his own ears. "It probably wouldn't turn out that way, would it--it would be the same old thing, just like school."

Courfeyrac shakes his head. "I'm so sorry I didn't notice that you were going through all this."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not. I should have noticed that something was wrong." Courfeyrac frowns. "I was so wrapped up in my own shit that I didn't pick up on what was going on with you. Oh my god, I was so selfish!"

" _I_ was the selfish one," Feuilly says, hiding his face in his hands. "I can't believe I didn't realize how I was making you feel. How could I have missed that you were upset?"

Courfeyrac gently pulls his hands away from his face. "As much as I want to get into this argument and prove to you that I have _way_ more to feel guilty for than you here . . . it's midnight, and you look super tired. Can we just agree to leave it at 'we both fucked up, and we're sorry'?"

"Yeah." Feuilly leans forward and kisses Courfeyrac softly. "I fucked up, and I'm so sorry . . . and I love you."

Courfeyrac smiles. "Me too."

 

* * *

 

 _ **courf_dartichaut (10:20 am):**_ happy fridayyyyyyyy

i hope ur having a nice morning

bossuet texted me n he wants 2 know if we want to go to the corinthe tonight

its Disco Bowling night

u see how serious i am abt Disco Bowling right it merits not 1 but 2!!! capital letters

(but we dont have to it is just one option)

 _ **é toiler_le_monde (11:02 am): **_happy friday to you too <3

Disco Bowling with our friends sounds hilarious

and believe me I am taking it super seriously :)

but i'm really tired

 _ **courf_dartichaut (11:03 am):**_ yeah i thought u might be

no worries

 _ **é toiler_le_monde (11:03 am): **_and I'd kind of like to have a quiet evening at home

just the two of us

<3

 _ **courf_dartichaut (11:04 am):**_ <3

 _ **é toiler_le_monde (11:05 am): **_i mean if you want to get out tonight i'm up for Disco Bowling

just can we maybe not stay out too late?

 _ **courf_dartichaut (11:05 am):**_ nah its cool

staying in is fine with me

if u can promise you'll put saving the world on hold for just one evening

and just eat junk food and watch some silly tv show

 _ **é toiler_le_monde (11:06 am): **_thats what i hoped we could do

sorry i know that's kinda boring

i can pick up those lava wings you like from Mike's Red Hot Wing Hut, would that make it more exciting

(oh god is this what we've come to? spicy food = an exciting night? we're such old people)

 _ **courf_dartichaut (11:07 am):**_ (MIKES RED HOT WING HUT!!!!)

(thats not an old person thing)

(old people can't handle that kind of heat)

(actually no i hope thats not true)

(i plan to be this excited about spicy wings until im 80)

 _ **é toiler_le_monde (11:07 am): **_(ahahahaha)

(ilu)

 _ **courf_dartichaut (11:08 am):**_ but srsly tho

i dont need exciting

what is that poem ferre likes?

he quotes it to enj all the time

smthg about sitting under a tree

with a book of verse

a bottle of wine

and thou

(thats not it i fucked it up somewhere along the way)

(ohw ell)

point is i dont need things to be exciting or whatever

this is more than enough

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things: 
> 
> This doesn't actually make any difference but I want to say it anyway: Enjolras and Combeferre are qpps in this fic.
> 
> étoiler_le_monde means to spread stars over the world
> 
> courf_dartichaut is a pun, to have a "coeur d'artichaut" is to fall in love easily, also it literally means artichoke heart
> 
> The poem that Courfeyrac mentions Combeferre quoting is "The Rubiaiyat of Omar Khayyam."
> 
> Finally, thank you for reading, and for all the lovely comments! I appreciate every one of them.


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